


Thunderstruck

by yeonglo



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Alternate Reality, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeonglo/pseuds/yeonglo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junhong is a helpless insomniac and meets a plain-spoken, sharp-minded cashier in a gas station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunderstruck

     Junhong can't help it. He's vulnerable and weak and a wimp, but he can't help it. When it happens again, for the third time since the beginning of the week ( _and it's only tuesday, for fuck's sake_ ), Junhong simply gives up on sleep.  
Releasing a trembling, terrified whimper, he shakily reaches over his bedside table and turns the lamp on, bathing the room in a reassuring, although quite feeble, light.

 

     It simply doesn't make any sense. His nightmares, as bad as they are, are only nightmares, they are not  _real,_  they can't  _hurt_  him. It doesn't make any sense that they are still able to shake him at the core, messing with his head at all hours of the day, making him sometimes lose himself in the thin line between imagination and reality.

     No matter how hard he tries, how determined he feels, his chimera don't wait for him in the comfiness of his bedroom, oh  _no,_  they follow him everywhere, like incorporeal beings slithering around him. They are like sharp, poisonous thorns scratching at his skin, thick gas clouding his mind, torture devices tightening around his brain and reducing it to mush. And no matter how much he fights them off, they always come back stronger than before, unstoppable, leaving behind their ebbs and flows appalling pulses of adrenaline that repeatedly send him over the edge of sanity.

 

     After spending what feels like an eternity shedding silent tears on his pillow, Junhong finally seems to get a hold on himself. His sobs die down, and silence falls on the room. With one shaky breath, he manages to draw some air back into his raging lungs, and coughs softly, quietly. Sniffing a last time, wiping his burning cheeks dry, he pulls himself out of his blanket and fumbles slowly, carefully, toward the window. There, he brings it open, greeting the fresh air winding briskly past him and filling his room with a fresh feeling.  
He settles both of his elbows on the frame, his chin resting on top of his right hand, relinquishing himself to the new clearness that wraps around his mind, washing away his torments. 

     What a beautiful night.

 

 

     It's about fifteen minutes past three in the morning, and Junhong decides he could definitely use a walk around the neighborhood. The street is clear of potential dangers and seems welcoming, enveloped in the delightful quietness of the night.  
He grabs his jacket, pockets it to be sure he still has his keys and wallet, and takes his cellphone on the desk, snatching it off its charger.   
He downs the stairs with cautious, cat-like steps, careful so as to not wake up his mother — she had a rough day, he remembers — and walks out of the house with the same delicate pattern.

     Outside, the wind welcomes him with a soft whisper, curling around his slender body and pushing him forward, further down the street. Junhong closes the door behind him and complies, finding comfort in the air's cold caresses against his cheeks.

 

     It's the first time he actually dares stepping out of his house alone at night. Of course, he did go to parties with his friends, spending nights roaming the streets, visiting bars after bars, but tonight — it feels different. He feels free, thrilled by his solitude yet soothed by the silence around him.

 

     He doesn't walk long. As much as he enjoys the feeling, he finds himself surprisingly bored after walking merely five blocks down the street, purposelessly wandering around. The houses, the roads, the cars all look the same. His mind rambles back to his nightmare and  _–_  
 _No._  He doesn't want to think about it now.

 

     A bit further down, he can distinguish a luminous sign (“ _TOTAL, WELCOME, 24/7_ ”) illuminating the buildings on the opposite side of the road with its red glow. It stands proudly above what he recalls is a gas station — Junhong actually passes in front of it two to four times a day when he rides the bus to school, but he never paid much attention to it.   
It's a gas station. He didn't feel concerned.

     However, the idea of an overpriced, low-quality coffee sounds sweet at this exact moment, and Junhong drags his feet leisurely to the entrance.

 

 

     He pushes the door to the little market hesitantly, timidly. He wonders for a brief instant if there's actually someone keeping the shop open even at the darkest hours of the night; but catches sight of the cashier at his left, slumped in his seat, legs resting nonchalantly on the counter. 

     He doesn't seem fazed by Junhong's entrance, throwing a quick glance of acknowledgment his way before going back to his previous occupation. Junhong clears his throat before murmuring a faint  _“hello”_  that he, himself, can't hear over the loud buzzing of the ceiling fans. His attempt at socialization, unsurprisingly, goes unnoticed.

     The boy is a bit older than Junhong but not by much; he has broad shoulders and thin brown hair, his fringe hiding his forehead and half of his eyes as they fall back on the magazine he is reading. Junhong notices his long, nail-less fingers clenching at the glossy paper, before turning away and directing himself toward the food section at the back of the shop.

 

     He finds cold, soft drinks, water, all kind of juices, expensive sandwiches, and fruit yogurts, but no coffee. He darts his eyes around the room for vending machines in vain, and eventually turns his attention back to the refrigerated display before him. Grape juice then, it is.

     He surrenders to a very appealing pack of chocolate chips cookies on his way to the cash register, before finally setting the products down on the counter. The cashier unfolds his legs and pushes them off the wooden surface, placing the tabloid on his seat as he stands up to scan the merchandise.

     “Three dollars and ninety-nine cents, please,” he announces, his voice steady, soft and smooth.

 

     Junhong freezes in a second, a jolt of electricity rushing down his spine; his body tenses as though he had been hit by thunder — because this is exactly what the man's voice feels like, heavy and stormy. Heat crashes upon him like on a damp, breezeless summer day, and for a moment the air seems so thick around him that he's actually afraid to breathe.

     “Hello?”

     Junhong reaches to his pocket, struggling to grab his wallet as he hopes his temporary flush of confusion went as unnoticed as his poor social skills from earlier. He hands five bucks over and impatiently shoves the bottle of juice down his jeans' back pocket before clenching nervously at his cookies' wrapper, waiting for his change.

     He can't help but take a glimpse of the cashier's name tag though. His name is scribbled down with clean, curvy letters, making it easy to decipher the humble alias of “ _Yoo Youngjae_ ”. He tears is attention away and back to the other's eyes.

 

     “Here, one dollar and one cent,” the cashier,  _Youngjae,_  holds his hand up to him, fingers stretched out, expecting Junhong to take the coins directly from his palm.

     The contact is awkward and makes the younger uncomfortable, but he complies nonetheless and lets his fingers brush against the other's skin as he collects his change.

     Although he had originally thought he would enjoy his almost-breakfast on the table in the corner of the room, he decides it would be wiser to flee, as far and fast as he could.

 

     He stutters a goodbye and doesn't wait for a reply before hurrying out; he hears it nevertheless, faint and muffled by the window doors clasping shut behind him, but still lingering in the air.   
He hears it, he hears the cashier say, “ _Have a nice night!_ ” in this velvety voice of his, and Junhong glances at him over his shoulder before rushing back home.

 

     He throws his jacket on the chair and sets the juice bottle on his bedside table before climbing back to bed, still fully clad.   
     He decides he doesn't need breakfast anymore.

 

*  
*    *

 

     The next night, Junhong doesn't even try to sleep.  
     He simply sits on his bed, his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, back pressed against his pillows, as he browses through news articles on his phone. Honestly, he has never been keen on politic and reading about all of the world's misery saddens him more than anything, but it's nice to have some serious matters to discuss with his friends. It makes him feel important.

  
 

     After browsing through most of today's worldwide events, he decides to watch some Youtubers' videos, but quickly ends up bored. So he signs in on all of his social networks' accounts — Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, Ask.fm.   
He checks his messages on Kakaotalk, Line, and Gmail. He skims through a note from his school announcing they're holding a conference about Andy Warhol in the amphitheater next month, and that all students, not only the art majors, are invited to the event.

 

     He has no idea who the man is so he looks him up on Google, and is pleasantly surprised to find images he actually knows; including one he recognizes as an album cover for The Velvet Underground.  
The  _Velvet_  Underground.

     His mind wanders back to the cashier boy from last night and he checks the time – four to two.

     He stares into nil for a moment, hesitant, before shrugging his blanket off and grabbing his jacket. He checks himself out in the mirror, ruffling his hair in a stylized mess, and inspects his teeth, just in case.

     Once he's finished, he soundlessly leaps down the stairs, two steps at a time, before rushing out the door and closing it behind him.

 

 

     Junhong looks into the foggy horizon, at the blurry sight further down the slope, and a new wave of doubt crashes over him.  
He made quite a fool of himself last night.   
He doesn't know what he will do once he's in the shop.

     He could buy something yes, but what? He went to the McDonald's with his classmates earlier today, and maybe ordering a sundae  _and_  a muffin hadn't been his smartest move of the month, but now he is short on money and can't possibly ask his mother for more.

     And maybe Youngjae thinks he's stupid and doesn't want to see him around anymore.  
     Maybe wasting his last dollars on some cheap food isn't worth a glimpse of the elder's face.

     Junhong heaves a bitter sigh and turns around to face the door, sliding his keys inside the lock and pushing his limbs warily back into the warmth of his living room.

 

     He's back to checking the weather forecast for the next month in the blink of an eye.

 

 

*  
*    *

 

     It's one in the morning and Junhong can't sleep – not like he wants to, anyway.

     The rain is pouring outside, water droplets restlessly clashing against his windows in loud thuds. He doesn't mind, the sound is strangely soothing. It lulls him, obviously, but not to sleep, because Junhong just  _can't_  sleep.

 

     The wind shakes the windows' frames harder, bringing more rain against it, and a white blinding light flashes in his room, momentarily illuminating his furniture as in broad daylight. He waits, breathless, for the loud crashing sound that follows.  
It shakes the ground, the house at his foundations, and Junhong can feel it echo through his chest.  
A scared dog barks in the distance.

 

     Thunder. Storm. Light. Rain. Thick air.

     He thinks about the cashier boy down the street.

 

 _“Is Youngjae afraid of storms?_ ” He finds himself wondering. 

     It's very much unlike so, but checking up on him couldn't hurt, and he found two dollars in the gutter today.

 

     He puts determination in his moves, he feels like he actually has a purpose this time.   
     He changes outfit and sets on a black T-Shirt with a skull pattern on its front, with a pair of ripped jeans that actually doesn't fit the weather, but to hell with the cold, he definitely looks cool in it.

     He grabs a leather jacket he hasn't worn in years — it's still his size, so why not — and transfers his wallet and keys to his jeans' pockets. He gives a small nod of appreciation to his reflection in the mirror and goes for it.  
He walks down the stairs calmly and stops by the front door to put on his black Doc. Martens, before stepping out of the house.

 

 

     He doesn't stop, he doesn't want to doubt. The rain feels cold against his skin and the drops slithering down his temples bother him, but the more he wipes them off, the more drenched he feels, so he gives up and just picks up his pace, careful so as to not slip on the soaked sideway.  
Junhong finally reaches the filling station, relief clogging his chest as he makes his way through the gas pumps toward the shop's entrance, leaving watery footsteps behind him.

 

     He doesn't bother looking toward the cash register when he enters the room — it feels warmer than last time, he notices, the ceiling fans are surely turned off —, and runs a hand through his hair, ruffling them up to dislodge some of the drops soaking his scalp.

 

     “Careful dude, I just mopped the floor.”

 

     Junhong stops, snapping his head up to glance at the other man in the room. He offers him a wide smile that the elder doesn't return, his face as blank as serious, and Junhong isn't sure how to react. He wipes his feet on the carpet and apologizes solemnly, eyes falling down on the shining tiles.  
 _But damn, how he likes the voice._

 

     He walks slowly, soundlessly, to the food section, just like the last time, except that Junhong fully intends on taking his time tonight. He eyes quickly the bottles of juices; the cold air emanating from the refrigerated shelves turns his hands dull and he takes a step back, curling his fingers against his palms to heat them up a little, then draws a quiet breath out.

     He doesn't really know what to choose. He's not especially hungry, nor especially thirsty, he doesn't feel needy and he doesn't crave for anything. He feels numb if not for the thumping in his chest, and the only thing that interests him in this room is unfortunately not for sale. 

     Yet, he feels safe here. He wouldn't be able to explain why — the mood is awkward and overall way too silent — but he feels at peace and actually rested.

 

     He mindlessly pulls a bottle of mixed berry smoothie off the shelve and feels his heart picking up his rate as he walks to the cash register. To Youngjae. The latter sets his phone on the side of the counter, ready to scan his articles, but Junhong withdraws at the last second and turns to the book display unit nearby.

     He looks through it for something that could hold his interest, sometimes picking up a book when the title doesn't scream  _there was a tree; drama ensues,_  but puts it back down as quickly as he took it up.

 

     Junhong  _loves_  reading. He can spend days losing himself in an imaginary universe; pleasant, beautiful ones, but sometimes also  _heart-wrenching_. They offers him safety too, somehow. A book has a beginning, a end, and an in-between. But definitely a ending. And once he was through a story, he always read two or three times the conclusion, to give it more finality.   
He had finished the last one he bought five days ago and the ending had left a void in his chest, one that he knew he could only fill by burying his soul deep in another story, another universe. 

     But let's keep it real, gas stations weren't ahead of the game when it came to literature.

     Sighing, Junhong fairly settles on the less wretched one he can find — a book about an elderly struggling to reunite with her family at the dusk of World War II — and turns back on his heels toward the cash register.

 

     He comes to a halt, bemused to find the cashier's stare still on him. He realizes he hadn't had the chance to take a proper look at his eyes yet, and grants himself a second, maybe a minute, to study them.

     They are deep, so profound he can feel his soul being sucked in, sinking in his pupils. 

     And that's the only thing he can think of, stuck on repeat in his brain like a scratched CD.

_Deep, deep, deep, deep._

 

     He tears himself out of his thoughtful examination when he notices Youngjae titling his head at him, obviously wondering if he will eventually drop his  _damned_  smoothie and  _damned_  book on the counter and let him go back to his phone business. Or at least, that's how Junhong interprets it. He can't really read these eyes.

     The younger delicately places the articles down. He wants to say something. He knows he's going to sound stupid anyway, but he really needs to say something. The price appears on the cash register's electronic display. Junhong tries to hurry,  _think about something, think about someth—_

 

     “Cold night, huh?”

 

     His eyes snaps to the elder.  
     He  _talked_  to him.

 

      “Yeah,” he croaks, “Winter's here.”

 

     And that's about all he's able to voice out. Youngjae only nods, waiting for him to pay, and Junhong doesn't know what to add so he just hands him his two bucks and lot of coins. It's merely enough, and he definitely doesn't know how he's going to pay for lunch food later, but he tries not to worry and just smiles a little at the elder as he carries his purchases away.

 

     He takes a seat at the table on the other end of the room, slumping backward and letting his shoulders press against the cold surface of the window. He has a pretty good view of the cashier from here, it makes him pleased.

     Youngjae doesn't spare him one more glance as he goes back to play whatever game he was playing on his phone before Junhong's arrival, while the latter takes a tentative sip of smoothie, eyes lingering on him.

     He doesn't stare long — if he's caught, it's going to make things even more awkward — and resolves into reading.

  
     Time seems to be left hanging in the air as they both get absorbed by their activities, paying no more attention to their surrounding, just faintly remembering each other's presence from time to time. Sometimes they get distracted by a driver stoping by to fill up, but they all pay with their credit cards and no-one actually comes in to disturb the peaceful silence that settled between them.

 

     The rain keeps falling all-night.

 

*  
*    *

 

     The next day, Junhong tries to sleep. 

     He was so exhausted that he tripped over himself and fell during one of his dance lesson – and if his classmates' pitiful glances weren't shaming him enough, the exasperated lecture he received from his teacher was definitely the killing blow. He was tired, susceptible, aggressive and felt paranoid. In a nutshell, he was unable to think straight and could literally feel his mind slipping away from control.

     He panics a little when his mind drifts off to sleep, eyes snapping open.  _He doesn't have the choice,_  he tries to argue with himself.

     He attempts to think about soothing things — flowered gardens, butterflies, his friends' smiles and cheers when he twirls and jumps backward and lands smoothly on one hand, holding his whole weight straight up above his head, sometimes just for the heck of it, because he's a show-off and a show-man. He thinks about winning competitions, going on dates.  
Nothing seems to work.

 

*

 

     About one hour and an half after he tucked himself into bed, he still doesn't seem to be able to rest.  
     He warily reaches for his phone, checks social networks and messages. Nothing. He puts it back on the bedside table with a sigh.

 

*

 

     He doesn't know what time it is.  
     He's bored. He tries to think about peaceful public gardens, marble fountains and flower bushes.

 

*

 

     Junhong has never seen Youngjae smile. 

     He always wears a  _seriously-unimpressed-I'm-taking-none-of-your-shit_  face, which reflects no emotions whatsoever. It's totally hermetic.

     Youngjae's eyes, though.

     They're profound and speak languages that have yet to be invented. They are fierce and lively. They howl for your soul, they claim it, they _mark_ it. Or at least that's what Junhong felt when he was dragged in the abyss of his stare, bone deep.

 

     Junhong imagines them crinkle at the corner, as a result of a genuine smile. 

     He feels a flush of heat sneak to his cheek, and presses his face deeper in the soft fabric of his pillow.

 

     He wonders what his body looks like.

     Junhong noticed Youngjae was shorter than him — in the other hand, very few people reaches Junhong's height. He had a little overview of his legs the first time they met, although they were bent at his knees. They looked fit. He has very broad shoulders. A buff neck, somehow.

_Must be sweet to place kisses on._

     He shakes the thought away, head then burying deeper in the pillow. It's surprising how he's still able to breathe.

 

     Doe eyes. A soothing voice. 

     Maybe his laugh feels like thunder, too.

     He smells nice, as far as Junhong knows. 

     He wonders if he prefers sleeping in his boxers or if he is more of a flannel-pajamas type of person.

 

     Maybe he owns pets. If so, Junhong hopes it would be a dog — he doesn't fancy cats and goldfishes are boring.

     How badass would it be if he owned a reptile though.

 

 _How would he look, what would he sound like, what would it feel like._ Singing in the shower, wrapping his arms around him in bed. They would cook together on sundays and maybe Junhong would teach him how to B-Boy.   
A tired smile tucks on his lips. He doesn't know when exactly, but he gives up on consciousness around this time.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong didn't sleep well last night. 

     He doesn't feel tired anymore though, and it cheers him up enough to pull through the day without picking up fights with strangers.

 

     He wants to go back to the gas station.

 

     He waits until his mother is sound asleep and that silence weights heavily on his house. No minute more.

     He wears dark gray jeans and a black blazer above a black V-neck. He thinks he looks good.

 

     His mother's handbag is on the couch; he doesn't really try but he spots it as soon as he enters the living room. Guilt flushes over him, but he tones it down: he's only taking ten dollars, after all.

 

     It's tempting to just hop his way down the street, but it would look quite ridiculous, even if he's alone. He can't help but hums songs softly, though. 

     White smoke breaks free from his mouth at every exhale, and he keeps shuddering as the chilly wind reaches through the fabric of his thin clothes, colliding ragingly with his skin.

_“Cold night, huh?”_

     Yes, definitely.

 

     He enters the shop yet again soundlessly, remembers to wipe his feet on the carpet, and turns to greet Youngjae just as quietly, with a glance and a nod. Youngjae nods back, and  _grins_  at him. Junhong feels the ground crumbling under his feet for a brief instant, heart rattling brutally in his chest.

     It's not the full-reaching-eyes-type-of-smile as he imagined it yesterday, but it sends waves of warmth and affection through his whole body. 

     It feels like coming home. It feels like peace.

 

     Junhong can feel his cheeks heating up and tears his gaze away, rushing to the beverages unit clumsily. Unfortunately, the tiles are wet and slippery — he doesn't exactly comprehend how it happens, but next thing he knows he's dangerously skidding sideway and losing his balance. Helpless, he attempts catching a shelf in front of him, but his hands are shaky from the cold and he misses it.

     The world seems to have stopped spinning as he gathers himself back on his traitorous legs. There's a stinging pain burning its way through his jaw and right arm, but he has no time to worry about himself as he realizes the milk and broken glass splattered all around him.

_Why do gas stations have milk in glass bottles, anyway._

 

     He hears Youngjae release a low _, impossibly low_  growl — the  _big-bad-wolf-shaken-off-of-a-nap_  kind of growl, and Junhong half-expect him to bare his teeth at him. He stiffens, unable to move, his face probably looking like one of a deer caught in headlights.

     Youngjae glares at him through his lashes, before moving to the side, pushing open a door Junhong never noticed before. He comes back seconds later, floor mop and bucket in hands.

 

     “Move,” he grumbles.

 

     Junhong wants to apologize, but he's terrorized and he is not sure it would make anything better at this point. With a trembling hand he reaches out and jerks the mop off Youngjae's hand. Their eyes meet.

     That was a bad move. _A terrible move._

 

     Youngjae tries to retrieve it, but Junhong hides the handle behind his back.

     “I'm sorry,” his voice comes out more submissive than he intended to. He doesn't mind pushing his pride aside for once, because all he wants is Youngjae to forgive him. “I will clean it up. Excuse me.”

 _“Dude._  I am  _paid_  for cleaning it.”

     Junhong's heart clenches a little in his chest.

     “No one will know. Just, let me.”

 

     Youngjae stays impassive, still glaring at him — his face suddenly softens though, and he gives up with a sigh, waving his hand toward the floor to give Junhong his approbation. He doesn't move an inch however, doesn't go back to his seat behind the counter; he simply stands here, watching. His eyes burn through Junhong's skull.

     The younger starts working nonetheless, wiping the milk away then pressing the mop down the bucket's dryer. He repeats the motion two or three times, before considering the ground clean enough to let it at that.

     Youngjae disagrees with a scowl, arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

     Junhong obeys to the silent order, uncomfortable.

 

     He kneels down to gather the shattered glass in his hand, and doesn't bother to hide his surprise when the other joins him on the floor, collecting the broken pieces with him. The room is silent, but it's nowhere near the easy and serene one they had two nights ago. Junhong feels the hair behind his neck rise, a chill running down his spine.

     Youngjae stands up and goes to fetch a dustbin. Junhong drops the wrecked pieces of glass in it, and resumes mopping.   
Somehow, Youngjae's hand lands on his arm, and the younger can't repress the outbreak of mitigated emotions shooting through his limbs. He feels _thunderstruck._

     “Clean enough.”

     Junhong nods.

     Youngjae manages to carry the mop, bucket and dustbin all at once back to their respective places.

 

     When he reappears through the hidden door and closes it behind him, he flashes Junhong a-half smile, as though trying to comfort him. Finally, the younger feels himself relaxing, a weight lifted up his chest, crushed into dust.

 

     “Say,” Youngjae begins, calling for his attention, “do you ever sleep?”

     And the other isn't sure of how to respond.

     “I try to, at least.”

     “Insomnia?”

     “Kind of, yes,” he tempts a crooked smile, but fails miserably.

     “Ah.”

     Silence crashes back on the place like an asteroid as Youngjae sits back behind his counter.

 

     “How old are you, anyway?”

     It makes Junhong smile, and this time, it's a real, wide one. He tries to tell himself it doesn't mean anything, that Youngjae isn't really interested in him, but he can't help the butterflies.

     “Turned eighteen last october.”

     “Oh. Kind of sad that you can't sleep.”

     “Yeah,” Junhong simply answers, his eyes darting from a beverage to another without really seeing them.

     “It's not like sleep could make you grow more than you already have, though.”

     The younger chuckles, daring to glance at Youngjae from the corner of his eyes. He chooses a banana smoothie this time, and heads toward the brunette.

 

     “What about you, how old are you?”

     “Twenty-two.” He sighs. It sounds beautiful, like a warm breeze during a summer night.

    “Twenty-two isn't that old.” It's a statement, a fact, but Junhong makes it sound like an interrogation, silently questioning the other about his discontent.

     “It's not about being old, y'know? — One dollar sixty nine. — It's more like, ' _eh, you're twenty-two, look at your miserably empty life_.'”

     Junhong hands him the money, smiling.

     “What's wrong about your life?”

     “You mean except for the fact I'm doing night shifts in a _filling station_  to get through college?”

     “Still, could be worse.” He feels Youngjae eyes on him –  _through_  him – as he gives him his change. He continues. “What's your major?”

     “Business management.”

     “Really?! Man that's awesome!”

 

     The room falls quiet for a moment as Youngjae visibly wonders if Junhong is being sarcastic. Peering at him through his bangs, he understands he's being genuinely too enthusiastic about the matter, and lets his lips curl into a smile.

 

     “You're interested in leadership?” He inquires curiously.

     “Not really. But eh, you could get rich.”

     “True.”

 

     Youngjae offers him a sincere grin, his cheeks parting to flash his bright teeth at him, obviously amused by his innocence. Junhong's feels his heart tighten, and tighten, and his stomach drops and it's like a whole colony of ants is racing down his back.  
He fidgets nervously with his smoothie, elbows resting on the counter.

 

     “You look like a kid that would study...” Youngjae marks a pause, drags a long hum as to prove his pensiveness, and finally carries on. “Literature. Aren't you?”

     “Not really. I just enjoy reading. A damn lot, actually.”

     “Then, what's your major?”

     “Dance. At the Ashton Art University.”

 

     Youngjae's eyes seem to lighten, and a warm feeling of accomplishment and pride bursts in Junhong's system.

 

     “You're a dancer? Now  _that's_  awesome! Show me a move!”

     Junhong tries not to blush. He tries so hard.

     “I can't here. I wouldn't want to knock down another bottle of milk.”

     “Then I guess it's time for me to take a break. Would you show me outside?”

 

     The younger wants to answer, to stay put and just reply a calm, composed “ _Sure, why not_ ”, but he's not trusting his voice, and most importantly, he's not trusting his own legs. He simply stares as Youngjae goes through the white backdoor again, grabs his coat and returns into the shop. He leads the way outside, and Junhong can feel the icy wind hit him even before he steps past the door.

     Here they are.  
     Youngjae is looking at him with expectant eyes.

     Junhong inhales sharply, trying to regain some composure. He thinks about a beat, one that could fit some impressive moves mashed altogether, blinks once, twice, and goes.  
Because it's cold and that the ground is still a bit slippery from the rain, he doesn't try perilous figures. He keeps them for later, to impress Youngjae even more another day.

     He starts by moving shoulders, hips, legs, he thrusts up once, and twice. He bounces on the spot to get the feeling, before throwing his upper-body forward, achieving a swift pirouette and landing on both of his legs successfully.  
He hears Youngjae starting to cheer and smirks – oh  _boy,_  he just got started.

     He manages to spin on one foot, and then let his hand reach the ground. He settles all of his weight on his arm, body going stiff from the effort of staying upside-down. He knows his shirt is sliding down his torso because of gravity, and he knows he's flashing lot of skin — tummy, maybe even his chest — at Youngjae; and he wants the moment to last, last forever. He wants the elder's eyes on him so badly, he could go insane.

     But he knows his arm is starting to fail him — he fell hard on it earlier and he's still in pain, he's not foolish and he knows he can't hold the position much longer. Thus, he lets his other limb rejoice the former and secures his position with his two palms flat on the ground. He gathers enough momentum to flip back on his feet with a swift jump. He finishes with two aerial somersaults, and bows jokingly to conclude.

     He's not sure why, but Youngjae's cheers and whistles trigger something in him; it dashes violently through his blood, making his heart throb louder, his boxers get tighter, and his mind lighter. Before he even knows it, he's biting down a seductive smirk and winks playfully at Youngjae.

 

     For a second, panic threatens to overtake him; but the elder doesn't even flinch at his blatant flirt attempt, he just keeps clapping his hands together and laughing loudly, making Junhong relax slowly. The smirk morphs into a shy smile as he shakes his head dismissively.

     “Too much praise would be suspicious, at that point.”

     The comment tears another laugh out of Youngjae, his shoulders shaking under its strength.

     “Ah, man! You're good, you're _so very good_!”

     It does nothing to ease the tightness in Junhong's underwear, but he pushes the thought away.

 

     They get back inside quickly, their neck disappearing in between their shoulders as they instinctively try to protect their throat from the cold. Youngjae rubs his hands together, a loud breath escaping his lips. Junhong wants to take him in his arms so badly.

_He would fit well there, it would warm him up._

     The elder catches him shuddering from the corner of his eyes, and comes to the conclusion that he is probably freezing.

 

     “Coffee?” He proposes, and Junhong's face lights up in a smile.

     “Yes! Please, that would be wonderful.”

     And with a grin, Youngjae invites him past the white backdoor.

 

*

 

     “Eh, I just realized I don't even know your name.”

     “Junhong.”

     “Youngjae.”

     He politely extends his arm to Junhong for a formal handshake. The latter gladly accepts it, his grin so wide that he worries he could split his face in half.

 _“I know.”_  Almost slips past his lips.

 

*  
*    *

 

     For three weeks or so, Junhong comes back every night.

     They mostly joke around, but sometimes they talk about important issues and argue about politic and finance and Junhong is glad he had spent the last few years forcing himself into reading newspapers.

 

     He doesn't know much about Youngjae's family but he picks up snippets from time to time about how he lives alone and struggles to pay his rent, even by cumulating two jobs. How difficult it is to pay for his students' loan every month.   
He concludes his parents don't want to help him or just can't.

 

     Youngjae doesn't own any pets because they are a hassle to take care of, he has no time, and no money. But he likes cats, they are cute yet independent, and he definitely wants one later in his life. It makes Junhong wince.

 

     Some nights, Junhong helps Youngjae stocktake, and some nights Junhong doesn't feel like fighting his fatigue anymore. Those nights, he just lets himself doze off on the table in the store or in the room behind the white door, and Youngjae usually wraps his own coat as a blanket around his shoulders when it happens.

     Strangely, Junhong doesn't have nightmares in the gas station. He doesn't dream either. He just blacks out for a bunch of minutes, sometimes hours, and wakes up refreshed, ready for a new day.

 

     Youngjae doesn't work at the station during weekends, so Junhong has no other choices but to stay focused on whatever matter he has to take care of during these days.   
His mother has still not noticed his late night escapades. It's quite relieving because he's pretty sure she wouldn't approve of them.

 

     There are nights where Junhong doesn't buy anything, because he's short on money and that stealing his own mother just feels wrong, but Youngjae doesn't mind. It's not like he had to pretend he was still coming for the overpriced, low-quality food at the station.

 

*  
*    *

 

     “Damn what a  _bitch!”_  Youngjae curses, jaw tensing. He takes a sip of his coke, eyes never leaving Junhong, before pursuing, “So what did you tell her?”

     “Nothing, what could I say?” He sighs wearily. “She didn't like my performance, is all. I can still do better next time.”

     “Are you serious? She literally told you–”

 

     A loud music goes off somewhere near them, catching them both off guard, and it takes Junhong more than a second to understand the noise is coming from Youngjae's phone. The latter stares at the screen, makes a face, mumbles a quick  _“hold on”_ , and finally answers the call.

     It's the very first time Youngjae receives a call in Junhong's presence, but then again they only meet at night and who in their right mind would call him at four in the morning.

 

     “Yeah?”

     Junhong tries discreetly to overhear the other's conversation, but all he can make out is a barely audible, muffled, high-pitched voice and deafeningly loud beats in the background.

     “What?” Youngjae draws his brows together in annoyance, then raises his voice, “I can't hear you, what's up?”  
     “No I can't pick you up. I'm working tonight.” A pause.   
     “I don't know, ask your friends?” Another second of silence.   
     “Yeah, but that's your fau–”

     He gets cut mid-sentence, and whoever is on the end of the line with him apparently grows impatient too, because Junhong can hear the high-pitched voice shriek. Youngjae laughs, but it's obviously not a happy one, as though he heard a funny joke – it sounds bitter and annoyed.

     “Call your parents, okay? Yes,  _right,_  goodbye. And for fuck's sake, don't call me when I'm at work.”

 

     He hangs up, sighs, and turns his attention back to Junhong.

     The younger feels his lips burn with questions, but he seals them together and waits eagerly for his friend to answer his silent plea. Youngjae takes the hint.

 

     “Girlfriend. Got drunk.”

     Junhong's heart sinks deep and low in his chest, and for a moment he can almost feel it beat in his stomach. He doesn't say anything, he waits for the uneasiness and pain to stop tormenting him.

 

     Then, after a silence that had been dragged a bit too longly for it to be casual, he states, “I thought you lived alone.”

     “I do. We've been together for like, a week.”

 

     It doesn't really appease Junhong, but at least they're not in a serious relationship, yet. He clutches at every remaining bits of hope he can gather, he desperately needs them, but it feels like they're winding away from him. 

     With a carefully studied nonchalance, Junhong inquires, “ _'She pretty?_ ” and the smile that lights up Youngjae's face stabs him straight and square. He releases the whimsical Hope, sets it free.  
He aches at places he didn't know existed.

     “Yeah, she is,” He lowers his gaze to his can of coke for a second, before looking back at Junhong and adding, “Reckless and troublesome too, though.”

     “Girls will be girls,” Junhong swallows down the painful lump in his throat with great difficulty.

     The elder smiles.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong makes a wonderful discovery over the weekend.

     He visits a little bookshop on sunday, because he's bored and sad and he can't get Youngjae out of his head. He had never noticed it before, looking ridiculously petite in between imposing buildings in a crowded street, yet he finds himself taken aback by how luxuriant the store is inside. Its shelves contains all the books he thought he would never have the chance to read, because they are rare or expensive, or considered boring and unavailable in any average bookstore.

     He finds a row of wooden boxes on the floor, at the back of the shop. It's set under a big blackboard where someone had messily scribbled with a white chalk “ _Obsolete editions. $2.99 each. :)_ ”

     The price is absurdly low and Junhong definitely can't restrain himself, so he kneels down before the first box and starts looking through it, in search of a diamond in the rock.

 

     By the time he's finished, he has found three of these: a philosophical study of human behavior in society throughout mankind evolution, a collection of poems' translations — the author being originally german. And the last one, he thinks, is the diamond that shines the brightest, the kind he realizes he has waited for his whole life.

     As soon as he comes back home from his stroll, he tells his mother not to bother him, that he won't be hungry for dinner — he gives her a quick peck on the cheek, rushes past her toward his room and locks the door.

 

     He doesn't stop reading until his alarm goes off at 6:30AM, notifying him that the weekend's over and that he should get ready for school.

 

*  
*    *

 

     He just can't stop reading. Not now.

     He briefly thinks about Youngjae but it still hurts a bit and he believes he's a grown-up man. He doesn't need him and he probably doesn't really care if Junhong keeps him company or not.

 

     So he goes back to reading, for hours and hours; and eventually falls asleep on the 326th page.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Some twists remind him a bit about  _Harry Potter,_  and it bothers him, because as far as being inspired is a good thing for authors, it's by innovating that they create masterpieces.  
He doesn't stop reading, anyway.

 

     He's nearing the end, and some intrigues are coming undone before his eyes, and he feels like a part of the universe now. He feels like he's  _there._  He feels like he's the one fighting the Devil.

 

     Clarence finally declares her love for Aaron as he's dying in her arms, and Junhong's breath gets caught in his throat. He coughs softly, wipes his right cheek on his shoulder, and carries on.

 

*  
*    *

 

     He reaches the final sentence at midnight.

     He reads the last paragraph once, twice; three times in a row and a fourth because he can.

     Junhong takes a deep inhale – it was  _such_  a good book. He feels empty, the void inside him coming back to crash onto him powerfully, maybe even more than last time; yet he also feels content and unbelievably cheerful.

     By the time he manages to fully pull himself out of the novel's universe, it's quarter to one, and he decides he misses the gas station's petty smoothies. He also desperately needs someone that would listen to his rambling about his new favorite story.

     He silently hops his way downstairs, grabs his shoes, and hurries outside.

 

     Junhong reaches the filling station in no time and happily pushes both of the huge doors open as he makes his entrance.

     Youngjae looks surprised for a second, but the younger's smile seems to take its toll on him and he rejoins him at the door in three large steps. He pushes him harshly against the cold surface of the windows, startling Jungong — he releases a terrified gasp that he would forever deny letting out — before taking a glimpse of the other's expression. He's wearing a playful grin, eyes somehow brighter than he has ever seen them, so Junhong simply relaxes, relinquishing to the elder's tight grip on his collar.

 

     “Where were you, you dick! Haven't seen you around in so long.”

     “Sorry,” Junhong laughs mischievously, “Were you worried?”

     Youngjae huffs, freeing him, “Won't lie, I was, a bit. But I figured you would need sleep at some point, too.”

     “I wasn't sleeping, I was _reading._ Oh, how I need to tell you about it!”

 

     Junhong smiles, and walks away to grab himself a smoothie while Youngjae goes back to his spot behind the counter.

 

     “You abandoned me for a  _book?”_  He whines jokingly.

     “I just couldn't stop reading. It was amazing,” the younger sets the beverage on the counter, along with the money he owes for it, still grinning, “Can I vent to you? I wouldn't want to bore you out, but, you know, I  _really_  want to talk about it.”

     “Go ahead, that's what friends are for.” Youngjae fakes a sigh before opening the cash register and shoving the bills in.

 

     Junhong pays no mind to the warmth taking over his chest.

 

     “It was about suicides in a werewolves' school.” He begins, but he catches the other's raising brows, so he adds “No, no, not the  _Twilight_  kind of werewolves. Well, yeah, a bit, but— It really wasn't a soap.”

 

     Youngjae lets out a chuckle at his blatant attempt at justifying himself, before letting him pursue, his elbows resting on the counter carelessly.

 

     “So it takes place in a campus specially designed for werewolves, with big forests and a greenhouse for medicinal herbs etcetera. At the beginning of the scholar year, the hero, Clarence, realizes she has classes in common with her all-time-crush Aaron and they start flirting—”

     Youngjae cuts him in his tracks, “That's definitely a soap.”

     “No!” Junhong feels defensive now, “No I swear. It starts like a romance but things get better, just hold on.” He gives him a smile as he tries to find a way to get straightly to the start of the good stuffs. “Okay, so weird things start happening like disappearance of security footages or dead animals found in the campus' main plaza in the morning, for example.”

 

     He stops, checking if he still has a Youngjae's attention, and the latter nods, encouraging him to go on.

 

     “And then the 'suicides' begin. It's not really Clarence's friends, but it's always people she had talked to at least once in the week prior to their deaths, and she's pretty sure none of them would have normally committed suicide, so she grows suspicious and she's afraid that Aaron and her pals could be in danger. So she starts investigating alone but her relationship with Aaron grows stronger and _shits just get so real_  at that point, you have no idea,—”

 

     Junhong doesn't know how long he talks about the book, he doesn't care.

     Youngjae listens to him, sometimes questioning him thoroughly about one specific part — more to prove that he's still listening than by genuine interest, Junhong guesses — and he teases him (“ _dude, you're such a nerd_.”), they laugh about some stupid things (“ _so, is there a bed scene at some point or?_  ”), and they talk about other books they've enjoyed.

     Junhong learns Youngjae is more into movies, but that's not surprising, he just can't picture him with a book. After all, he was reading tabloids when they first met.

     Just like that, time flees unnoticed, and soon it's already dawn and Junhong sadly states it would be wiser for him to go back home before his mother wakes up.

 

*  
*    *

 

     The next time he goes to the shop, Youngjae welcomes him with his cheerfullest smile, and it warms the younger to the core.

 

     “I went to the pharmacy in between classes today. I checked some of the stuffs they had for insomnia.”

     Junhong freezes.

     Youngjae continues, oblivious, “Have you ever taken medicine for it?”

     “I have...” He trails off, hesitant, “It just made things worse. I got sucked in so deep that I couldn't wake up the next morning, even when my mother or brother tried to shake me out of it. I just entered some weird micro-comas each night.”

     “Maybe you just reacted badly to that one medicament. You should try again sometime, you really look like shit.”

     “Worried for me again, aren't you?” Junhong gives him his best teasing grin.

 

     He doesn't want to think about it anymore, he doesn't even want to sleep anymore if that means he can stay with Youngjae. It's foolish, but what can he do, he has fallen head over heels over a guy that is sometimes sweet yet still a bit of a dick most of the time, but mainly  _taken,_  and he can't bring himself to regret it.

 

     At the thought of Youngjae's girlfriend, he inquires, “How's Hanna, by the way?”  
     His voice comes out colder than what he intended to.

 

     “Dunno', we broke up.”

     Junhong bites his bottom lip — smiling would be inappropriate. Instead he offers the other a compassionate smile and a pat on the arm.  _Damned be these biceps._

 

     “I don't care, you know,” Youngjae declares matter-of-factly with a chuckle, “She was cool, but not  _that_  cool.”

 

     The younger jumps at the chance to make him talk about his preferences.

     What he's looking for in his companions, his turns-on/turns-off, all the little things that  _he_  could to do to seduce him. He tries to lead him to serious topics like bisexuality, curious about what he thinks about it, but Youngjae doesn't seem to take the hint and ends up talking about  _sex._  With his  _exs._

 

     Junhong tries his best not to cringe, and immediately regrets treading on these dangerous grounds.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong wakes up panting, damped in sweat from head to toes. His eyes snap open but he can't seem to be able to move, paralyzed by fear, and it takes him more than a few deep breaths to understand he's not dreaming anymore.

     He can't think straight. He's scared and he doesn't know what happened, he doesn't know where he is or what he's doing here, and he can't form one coherent thought, and his whole body aches as though it had been torn apart and sewed back together.

     He doesn't think twice before he jumps in his jeans and grabs a jacket, and before he can realizes what he's doing, he's already running down the snowy street to the gas station.

 

_Safety._

 

     He bursts through the door, making them crash against the wall loudly; he can barely distinguish Youngjae through his blurred vision but he knows he's here and simply lets go of himself completely.

 

_Youngjae is safety._

 

     He can't understand what the elder is telling him, he's too far gone and he can't stop crying. He is vaguely aware of a burning pain in his throat but he's not sure if it's because of his strangled sobs or if he's currently screaming.

     A thunder-like voice echoes through his mind and makes his ribs tremble, but he can't grasp the meaning of the words – just that it sounds rough and worried. He feels something grab him and pull at his limbs, he doesn't feel like fighting it off, so he lets himself being dragged in another room, darker and balmier.

 

     Youngjae shoves him down on a chair and kneels beside him. The younger calms down a bit, yet keeps wailing. He vaguely senses a hand stroking his scalp and leans into the touch.  
The gesture is gentle and soothing — he takes a deep, shaky inhale.

 

     “What happened, Junhong?”

     He still can't talk, but he glances at the elder through his watery eyes and hopes he will understand he has to be patient, has to wait until he has recovered his voice. 

     Youngjae gets it.

 

     He keeps rubbing the back of his head in soft, round motions, sometimes caressing down the length of his neck, and Junhong feels like he will never be able to thank him enough for it.

 

     “Nightmare,” he finally croaks, voice breaking.

 

     Youngjae doesn't push it – he simply keeps stroking his hair, shushing him.

 

     “It's ok,” He whispers after a while, “You're good now. You're good, I'm here.”

 

     Youngjae straightens his back before pushing Junhong's head down against his shoulder, his hands never stoping to run through his hair. Junhong grips at his shirt, and closes his eyes, breathing messily.

 

He's warm and smells like autumn and rain.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Sometimes, he feels like Youngjae considers him as a real friend. Sometimes, it's closer to a baby brother. But never, ever, as a potential  _boyfriend._ Junhong doesn't know how to make his intents clear without scaring the living shit out of him.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong's buddies invite him to a party on Saturday night. Youngjae doesn't work on Saturdays: he accepts gladly, thankful.

 

     He has an amazing circle of friends. 

     If they had forgotten how he looked like without the dark, deep shadows under his eyes, they never mention it to him. They don't sound like they pity him either, but he knows they are careful around him.

 

     When he has moments of absence, where his eyes stay unblinking but that his mind is nowhere near them, they don't shake him out of his reverie. When he is slower, not directly catching what they are talking about, they simply re-explain him, quietly. And when he passes out during theoretical classes, they make a point of honor to let him borrow their notes for a day or two.

 

     They tell him it will be a friendly get-together, something simple. They will first meet at Jongup's and maybe have a beer or two, before moving downtown and round some bars. They're obviously going to get drunk and spend a month wise of money on alcohol, but it sounds perfect to Junhong and he could definitely use a high.

 

     He asks his mother some cash and she frowns at him. She noticed how exhausted he has looked, too, and she would rather have him confined in his room sleeping it off than drinking with other young men ( _and really, she knows how youngsters' parties go, she has been a teenager too, and a popular one at that—_ ), but except for a lecture on the importance of keeping oneself on the righteous path, she doesn't put up a fight and eventually obliges wearily.

 

     He's excited, he can't wait until Saturday. 

     He tells Youngjae.

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong decides to really try and look attractive for the party.

     It's not like he wants to hook-up or whatever, but he knows his friends will all be dressed up to the nines, and he doesn't want to be the ugly one.

 

     He selects with much care a plain white T-Shirt and blue jeans, a necklace that hangs low on his chest, and chooses to wear it with his dark blue navy coat. For the shoes, he settles on the brown ones that look like highly-stylized hiking boots.

     His mother helps him hide the dark circles under his eyes and adds a bit of color on his cheeks as her final touch; she smiles down at him, or rather, at her work proudly and kisses him on the forehead before driving him to Jongup's.

 

     Reuniting together out of school's walls feels great, refreshing even. They uncap their first beers together and decide to play  _Never Have I Ever._

     Junhong gets flustered to no end when he realizes he's the only one that never had sex, but his friends don't tease him and the game goes on.

 _“Never have I ever spent three days without sleep.”_  
     Ah, they got him good.

*

     At eleven, they leave to the first bar and meet some other friends there. 

     The interior is decorated quite fancily, all in pink with black, baroque patterns here and there. The dimmed lighting and the hot air make it closer to a brothel than a real bar, but they choose to stay anyway and set themselves comfortably at the counter.

*

     The second bar is one that they know, where they go from time to time.

     It's named  _The Pirates_ , and the decoration reminds him of sea and ships (obviously). The walls are all sky-blue, and there's white sand in glass bottles on each booth tables.

*

     The third one is called  _Chameleon_  and the interior hurts his eyes; it's all bright colors and bright lights, deafening music and people.

*

     They take a break on a public bench after that, and they all band together to tease Himchan because he's drunk, and when Himchan is drunk, you bother him. That's the rule.

*

     The fourth bar looks familiar, but Junhong can't recall the name. He remembers a bit later he could have read the sign above the entrance.

     Well, whatever.

*

     He gets lost in his thoughts for something like five minutes, but when he comes back to his sense they're already in the fifth bar and Daehyun is nowhere to be found. Yongguk tells him he left with a girl some hours ago.

     Lucky him.

*

     They reach the sixth bar and Junhong doesn't know where they are because he definitely can't recognize this street.

 

     He stands against the wall outside, his back flat on the bricks — he needs support because his legs feel like jelly and they're failing him. A pretty girl offers him a cigarette, he hears himself accept.

     He has never smoked before and doesn't know how to do it, so he just holds the butt between his lips, hoping he looks as cool as the models in the magazines, but the smoke stings his eyes painfully.

     The girl laughs at him and explains he has to inhale – he doesn't really want to but eh, all experiences are good to take, he's drunk and the girl is pretty.

 

     He likes pretty girls, they're cool.

     She tells him her name, age, and probably talks about her hobbies, but he doesn't really pay attention to her.

     He feels like his face is burning in the freezing air of December.

 

     He doesn't know when exactly but she has left him, and he thinks Jongup came to check up on him at some point but he's not here anymore now. The figure beside him is taller than Jongup.

     He takes a step back.

     Youngjae flashes him a smile, asks “How you doing?”, but the younger doesn't really know what to reply or if he's even real — he stretches a hand out and raises it up to palp his face. 

     This skin is as real as it can be.   
     He retrieves his hand in one slow, confused even, move.

     He tries to answer, finally, but his voice sounds foreign and startles him. He's too drunk for casual talks. He feels dizzy.  
     He can't concentrate.

 

_“...tractive when you're drunk.”_

 

     Junhong only grasps the end of the sentence and looks at the other through half-lidded eyes.

 

     “Dude, talk to me or I'm taking you to the hospital.”

 

     No, not the hospital. The hospital is definitely not on his mother's righteous path.

 

     “M'fine.”

     “Good. I'm taking you back to your place, okay?”

 

     Junhong chuckles.

 

     “No way in hell I'm giving you my address.” He garbles lazily. Upon seeing Youngjae brows raising in confusion he adds, smirking, “Dunno', you could be some kind of psycho.”

 

     For a second he thinks he saw hurt pass through Youngjae's eyes, and decides to laugh it off, trying to show he's only joking. The elder smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. They don't crinkle at the corner.

     “Don't be mad at me.” He hears himself whisper, but once again, it's slurred and this voice feels foreign.

     He's so going to regret this tomorrow.

 

     For a moment he thinks about confessing, because he's drunk and if Youngjae rejects him, he can always play it cool, shrug it off, and tell him he was _just drunk_. No biggie'. But it doesn't feel fair to do so, and, if he ever confess to the elder, he wants it to be right. So he holds back.

 

     “Where's your phone? I'm going to call your mother, she will pick you up.”

 

     He feels Youngjae's hands look for the device in his coat's pockets and he smirks — the other doesn't seem to notice.

     He won't find it.  
     He would need to grope his ass to find it.

     After two or more long minutes of vain search, Youngjae frowns at him. For a moment, Junhong's afraid he really did upset him, but before he can babble any apologies, the elder sighs, “I guess I will have to take you to my place.”

     Junhong closes his mouth instantly. He won't say anything. He definitely doesn't need to.

     He only nod with a smile and lets Youngjae pass one of his arm around his shoulder, and shudders when he feels the other's arm around his waist, under his coat.

 

     “You're so light Junhong, you really need to eat more than the gas station's food.”

 

*  
*    *

 

     Junhong's wakes up to the sound of something buzzing somewhere. It's accompanied by a beat he faintly remembers, but his mind is wrapped in thick fog and it hurts to think. He's surrounded by a smell he can't recognize. He tries moving but his neck feels sore.

     Slowly, he opens his eyes, but it takes him a while to adjust his blurry vision. He sees a TV in front of him. He's on a couch. The music doesn't stop.

     Finally, he understands it's coming from his phone and urges himself forward; he slumps down on the floor, snatches his jeans and swiftly grabs his cellphone — “ _Mom. Two missed calls_.”  
He calls her back.

 

     She doesn't sound especially worried but she would like to know at what time she should come pick him up at Jongup's. He feels a rush of adrenaline run through his system as he realizes he's definitely not at Jongup's.  _The hell?  
_ He reassures her and promises to call her back once he's done with breakfast, he also warns her the goodbyes may be dragged till late evening, because Jongup's parents bought him a new video game and they want to try it together. She buys the lies, and they hang up.

 

     He throws himself back on the couch and sinks down into it.

     He's sure of three things for now:  
     Firstly, he's in his boxers. He can't remember when or why he removed his clothes.  
     Second, he has no idea where he is. And “ _not at Jongup's_ ” isn't a satisfying location.  
     Lastly, he's alone.

     The room where he has slept seems to the only one of the dwelling — there's a kitchen next to where he's seated and he can guess the door at the other side leads to the bathroom. He can't see another door — except for the front door — so he concludes there's no bedroom, and nowhere to hide for any other living being.

 

     He sighs — his head is pounding and it  _hurts_  — before he spots a glass of water on the coffee table facing him. There's a little post-it pasted on a medicine box laying beside it.  
Painkillers, just what he needed.

     He doesn't bother reading the yellow note, and swallows a pill. Although he knows it can't possibly take effect so fast, he already feels some relief wash through his mind.

     He blinks twice and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before trying to read the memo.

 

 _“Eh, sleeping beauty!_  
 _“If you want to take a shower, there are clean towels under the sink. Put them in the laundry basket once you're done using 'em._  
      _“!!!!DON'T FORGET TO TAKE THE PAINKILLER!!!!_  
      _“I'm working at the Parnaseum's Starbucks during the weekends. Meet me there, I'm gonna buy you breakfast._  
 _“Youngjae :)”_

 

     Oh. Oh, right, Youngjae.

     He feels a nasty heat creeping its way to his cheeks, embarrassment flushing through him. He reads the note anew, and blushes even harder.

     He is half-naked. On Youngjae's couch. In Youngjae's apartment.

     For some reason, he feels thankful Youngjae can't see him now, with the morning hair, breath, and wood.  
     He silently stands up.

 

     He looks around, curious about his friend's lifestyle – after reconsideration, waking up alone at Youngjae's is a real blessing. His apartment is nothing fancy, actually it's even pretty small and shabby. But it's  _Youngjae's,_  he pays for its fees all alone, and he works hard, so hard for it. It makes the place the most beautiful one Junhong has ever visited.

     Junhong smiles to himself as he grabs a towel and settles it on the sink, then steps in the shower. He tries not to think about what Youngjae could have done at that exact same spot.

 

     The whole place smells like him. It's comforting, and Junhong never wants to leave, ever.

 

     He wonders if Youngjae would mind if he borrowed him clothes. He truly hope he wouldn't, because his T-Shirt reeks of sweat and his underwear of —  _Oh._ He doesn't want to put a name on the odor.

 

     Youngjae doesn't own a lot of clothes, and they all are plain and simple, so he doesn't have to hesitate and grabs whatever comes under his hand. He steals a pair of black boxers and a white T-Shirt — which probably looks tight on Youngjae's chest but is rather loose on his own torso — and slips back into his jeans and coat. He shoves his underwear and T-Shirt in the laundry basket: with a bit of luck, the elder won't even notice he switched their attires. 

     Youngjae's apartment's door bangs shut behind him, locking itself automatically.

*

     It's past midday by the time he reaches the coffee shop where Youngjae works. A tad late for breakfast.

     People's gazes flash at him when he enters, making an uncomfortable feeling set itself deep into his stomach, and he quickly starts to look for the elder, because really, he doesn't know what to do with his body anymore.  
He spots him chattering away with a girl behind the counter, partly hidden by a row of food displays. He walks up to him, and when Youngjae finally notices him, a wide smile threatens to split his face in half.

 

     “Look who's there! What an honor to see you there, sleepyhead.”

 

     Junhong blushes at the name and waves his hand dismissively in the air.

 

     “Slept well?” He asks, still smiling.

     “I did,” the younger replies timidly, “thank you.”

     “Ah, don't mention it!”

 

     And how could Youngjae be so cheerful. There's only one couch in his apartment, and Junhong took it — he wonders for a moment how did the other sleep last night. He feels sorry, guilty, but still quite flattered.

 

     “So, can I take your order? You can have whatever you want, my treat.” Junhong tries to protest but it only makes Youngjae tease more. He winks and retorts, “No  _buts,_  kid. It's on me.”

     Well, what could he do.

     However, he has rarely ever been at Starbucks and finds himself at a loss for words. He has no idea what most of the things written on the blackboards are, so he just shrugs his uneasiness off and tries to sound cool, “ _Surprise me._ ”

     Youngjae grins even harder (something Junhong would have thought impossible a minute ago), pleasantly dazed with his answer, and sends him off while he prepares his own favorites.

  
     Sitting there is awkward. He doesn't know where to look — he surely can't stare at Youngjae because his coworker seems to keep an eye on him, studying him, and she's making things even more difficult. He ends up peering at the wall, pretty certain he looks like an idiot, but at least the wall won't judge him.

     Youngjae rejoins him at his booth after feels like forever, and Junhong heaves a sigh of relief as he watches him set a tray on the table and slide on the leather seat across from him. There are two cups and two muffins on the plate.

 

     “I'm glad you came, I was starting to starve,” Youngjae snorts.

     “Consider yourself lucky, I could have slept through the whole day if it wasn't for my mom's call.”

     “Then we could have eaten dinner together at my place.”

 

     Junhong's heart goes wild at the statement, cheeks heating up, and he feels miserable for reacting like a prepubertal school girl.

 

     “That's cute when you blush.” Youngjae declares, matter-of-factly, and the younger flinches under his gaze.

 

     It takes him a bit too long to reply, “Thank you”, voice barely above a whisper, but it makes his tormentor laugh and his muscles loosen up at the sound.

 

     They sink in a comfortable silence for a moment as they both take sips of their drinks — Junhong's doesn't taste so bad. He's not sure if Youngjae chose a chocolate flavor for him because he picked up the fact the younger was a chocolate-freak while they were together, or if it was a lucky guess. He prays for it to be the first option.

 

     “So, last night,” Youngjae begins, but his sentence hangs in the air as he stops to licks his lips — Junhong doesn't miss one bit of the move. “Big night huh?”

     “Kind of.”

 

     He's embarrassed and he would rather not talk about his carousals, but the reluctance in his voice visibly doesn't impress the elder.

 

     “Do you remember...” A pause, “Stuffs? Like how you ended crashing at my place?”

     “I remember talking to you outside a bar, but that's all...” He takes another sip of his beverage before inquiring, “Why were you there by the way? How did you find me?”

 

     Youngjae twitches in his seat, suddenly looking rather troubled. It's faint, it doesn't look like much, and he could have easily missed it if not for the last few months in his company. Junhong feels a spark of hope lighting his guts on fire.

 

     “Coincidence.”

 

 _My ass_. Junhong smirks, suddenly enjoying the situation a bit too much as Youngjae seems to crumble down under the weight of his stare.

 

     “It's not like I was looking for you or whatever. I just happened to be there, you know, passing by.”

     There's a silence again, and Junhong finally feels generous enough to abridge his suffering.

     “Yeah, okay.”

 

     Youngjae knows he's not buying it, but at least he doesn't insist and it closes the topic. They fall silent again afterward, as the elder seems too flustered to start another conversation and Junhong isn't too sure of what to say either. So he just eats away his muffin – which tastes bad, honestly, but he wouldn't want to waste Youngjae's money – and drinks some more.

 

     “Uh, Junhong.”

 

     He slowly straightens his head up to look at him, and hums interrogatively.

 

     “It felt great having you at my place. We should definitely do it sometime again.”

     The younger releases a quiet laugh, that could almost sound insincere if it wasn't for his shoulders jolting up.

     “I feel bad that I blacked out before we made it to your apartment. I can't remember, you know.”

     “Well, nothing special happened, really. But you snore and it was a funny sound to listen to.”

 

     They laugh in unison, and curiously, Junhong doesn't feel embarrassed about it.

     “Where did you sleep anyway? You don't own a bed.”

     “Ah, well,” Youngjae shakes his head, lowering his gaze, “On the floor. I didn't want to bother you, I know you have troubles sleeping.”

 

     Junhong knits his brows together, shooting an apologetic glance at him. Youngjae dismisses his concern with a swift move of his hand.

 

     “Don't worry, Junhong, my parquet is comfy.”

     He offers him a genuine smile that softens the younger a bit.

 

     “Next time, I'm sleeping on top of you.”

 

     It slips out of his lips so fast, it takes him a moment to comprehend he just released a bomb on their booth.

     Shame starts bubbling in his stomach and he simply refuses to look up, look right into Youngjae's intense gaze, because he's terrified by whatever he will find there. His mind is screaming at him to flee, just like it did when he first heard the elder's voice, but his legs refuse to cooperate, and he finds himself stuck there, the other's bewildered stare weighting on him as much as ten elephants, fifty cars and a whole Apple store resting on his shoulders.

     To be honest, he is also curious about Youngjae's reaction. And if he ends up rejecting him, then so be it; it will hurt like a bitch for a week, a month, a year at the most, but at least he will be fixed.

     Still, time seems to be hanging in the air again and Junhong decides he definitely hates it.

 

     He almost doesn't notice it when Youngjae breaks the overwhelming silence between them.

     “Well, that's naughty.”

 

     His tone is cocky and a smirk his playing on his lips – damn, he looks attractive.

     Junhong blushes madly.

     He doesn't know what this is supposed to mean; maybe Youngjae didn't grasp the innuendo?   
     Oh, look at this smirk, _he so did_.  
     Then what? Is he accepting his feelings? Does he think it's a joke? Is it a nice way to turn him down?

     Junhong feels like he's losing it, every single bit of sanity he clung onto were leaving him. He refrains his body from spasming.

 

     “I should head back to my friend's. My mother is supposed to come pick me up there.”

 

     He tries so hard to keep his voice steady, under control, but he can hear it wavering, stuttering, and it makes him even more distraught.

 

     “I can give you a ride.” Youngjae's smirk morphs into an amused smile. “I hope I earned your spurs by now and that you're not still considering me as a random  _psycho.”_

     Junhong grimaces, “Never did. 't was a joke.”

     Youngjae's grin doesn't lessen.

     “I took my lunch break, I still have like, forty-five minutes before getting my ass back there. Take your drink, let's go.”

 

     His intonation leaves no room for bargaining and Junhong has no choice but to surrender docilely, trailing along with a deep, aching feeling of      anxiousness crushing his bones into dust.  
     He promises himself he won't leave his room for a month if he ever make it alive.

*

     At any other time, Junhong would have enjoyed the situation. Sitting so close to Youngjae, having their arm practically brushing against each other's, the comfiness of such a minuscule space – he would have cherished the memory until his death.  
But it's not any other time and Junhong is nervous, his body is tense and his neck is about to snap from the pressure. It's a surprise his nose is not bleeding yet.

 

     Youngjae doesn't seem affected by the stressful atmosphere, humming quietly and tapping his wheel to a song that is only playing in his head.   
Junhong squirms in the leather seat.

     “Eh, breathe.” Youngjae says — it sounds like an order. “I won't molest you.”

     “I'm not–”

     His voice trails off. He's not sure what he is supposed to answer, or if he's supposed to answer at all.

     After a lot of thinking, a mini-debate with himself on the importance of expressing his emotions and staying honest, and a long, long research through all of the vocabulary he had at his disposal, Junhong finally replies.

 

     “I'm genuinely mortified.”

 

     He feels pathetic, it took him so long to pinpoint the feeling, and now he can only word one poor sentence with it.

 

     “You don't need to be.”

     “It's not quite about you driving me home, Youngjae, and I know you're avoiding the topic.”

 

     The elder tenses beside him, and strangely enough, he's relieved he's not the only one going stiff anymore.

 

     Youngjae seems to look for an appropriate answer, his face severe with obvious concentration, and although it's clear that he won't answer after the first three minutes of deep reflexion fled away, Junhong isn't sure how to restore the conversation after that.  
So he just waits. He turns his knees away from the other and directs his shoulders toward the window; he looks outside and patiently waits for his worse nightmare to end.

*

     They reach their destination about ten minutes later, but the ride was so awkward that it felt like a whole road trip through Europe.

     Junhong mutters a thank, unbuckles his seatbelt rapidly and hurries out of the car without looking back at the brunette. He needs to get out of here as fast as he can, he has never missed his room so bad before. He just wants to crash on his bed, shed all the tears a human body can possibly shed, and pass out. He wants to go back to the scary nightmares and peaceful sleepless nights on Facebook.

 

     He can't recall a time in his life where he has ever felt so miserable, and he blames all of this on Youngjae's existence.

 

     The other doesn't try to hold him back, remaining untroubled as Junhong fumbles with his keys. He wishes he could feel relieved to be able to escape without a ridiculous melodrama, but deep down inside, all he he can perceive is pure, harsh deception tacking him down once he steps in his living room.

 

     He faintly hears the car's engine purr before the sound is fading in the distance.   
He catches a sight of his mother in the kitchen and weakly falters toward her to announce he made it home.

 

*  
*    *

 

     He doesn't go back to the filling station after that.  
     Actually, he avoids it at all cost – he doesn't even ride the bus in this street anymore.

     He feels exhaustingly empty, and it's a void no book seems to be able to fill.

 

*  
*    *

 

     His mother asks him what he desires for christmas. 

     He almost answers “ _Youngjae_ ” but the guy is definitely not something he can own so he settles on a new pair of headphones.

 

*  
*    *

 

     There's a storm on christmas' night.

     He tries his best to ignore it, but it's loud and it makes his bedroom walls shake under its strength. Junhong implores it to go away, to let him be – but what could he do, storms take shit from no one.

     They only obey to their own orders. They are childish and impetuous; every thing they touch, they destroy and burn. There are about 76 deaths, and even more injuries, by lightning per year in the world and it's all because storms are cruel and wicked sons of a bitch.

     They strike and leave you absolutely no chance.

     Junhong puts his new headphones on his ears, music loud and deafening, as he sinks deeper in his mattress. _He fucking hate thunderstorms._

 

*  
*    *

 

     By the end of January, the weather gets so bad Junhong ponders every morning if going to school is actually worth the effort.

     He's tired, and cold and still unbelievably  _heartbroken._  But his mother paid his college a real fortune because she trusts him, she believes he has a bright future ahead, and he doesn't want to disappoint.

 

*  
*    *

 

     His brother calls for his birthday. 

     He's born in  _October._  Junhong thanks him nonetheless.

 

 _“Eh, remember who's born in January?”_  His mind seems to scream at him.

 

*  
*    *

 

     The next time he sees Youngjae, it's mid-february, and they meet at a grocery store.

     His mother sent him fetch eggs and paprika, and he had been very cautious as to avoid the main street and the gas station, although it was afternoon and he knew Youngjae only worked there during nighttime. But he clearly hadn't expected he would actually bump into him here.

     They stare at each other in disbelief, helplessly gawking in the middle of the alley.

     Junhong eventually pushes past him.

 

*  
*    *

 

     It has only been a few day, really, not that long.

    He's a bit surprised when his mother calls him downstairs, telling him someone's waiting for him outside, because he hadn't been expecting anyone.

     When he enters the living room and makes out the contour of Youngjae's silhouette in his door's frame, he grows terribly angry. He shoves his mother aside vigorously and smashes the door shut in the other's face.

 

     The bell rings several times afterward, echoing through the whole house, but Junhong tells his mother to pay it no mind, and she complies.

     If she's intrigued by his behavior, she doesn't push the issue, and his son is thankful for that.

 

*  
*    *

 

     He doesn't want to see him ever again.

     He grew irrationally enraged over the past few months, and honestly he can't really remember why, but the memory of his face, smile, and touches itches him so badly he could rip his own skin off.

     Yet, he's fully aware hatred is another form of concern, and he detests himself for that, maybe even more so.

 

*  
*    *

 

     It's spring and the thunderstorms just won't stop.  
     Maybe it's because they irritate him so much and that he can't help but notice them, but it feels like there's at least one per week and it annoys him to no end.

     Thunder reminds him of Youngjae, of how terribly he misses him.

 

     He lays in his bed wide awake, desperately trying to get some rest, but he can feel his resolution crumble down bit by bit, and he knows he shouldn't, but he ends up questioning his furor, and he realizes it's definitely not making any sense anymore.

     It's infuriating how easily he manages to pull himself out of bed. He grabs the first raincoat he finds and heads out the house.  
     Down the street.  
     Toward the gas station.

 

     His steps are hesitant by the time he reaches the gas pumps, and he seriously considers turning around and never coming back, but he made it so far and it's not like he could sleep, anyway.

 

     He pushes the store's huge window doors quietly, welcomed by the fresh air produced by the ceiling fans.

     For a moment, he keeps his head low and can't bring himself to look at the counter. At Youngjae. He finally gathers enough courage to gaze at him, and timidly locks eyes with the other man.

 

     He can read surprise in his dark brown orbs. Maybe a bit anger, frustration, but also relief. Junhong feels like he yearned for his return.

 

     In long, quick steps, Youngjae rounds the counter and dashes toward him. Junhong has a bitter of taste of  _déjà vu_  stuck in the throat when the elder shoves him against the door violently, grip tight on his collar as he pushes him backward even harder.

     He can consider himself lucky the glass isn't breaking, because Junhong surely ain't going to be the one paying for the potential damages' repair.

 

     Youngjae's not smiling this time, but Junhong isn't especially scared by him, either. Actually, he could kick him in the guts and leave so easily if he wanted to, he can't bring himself to feel the slightly impressed.

 

     “ _Where were you, you dick,_ ” he drawls in a whisper, enunciating every syllable cautiously. He blows a long breath out. “ _I haven't seen you around in so long._ ”

 

     That's it.

     That's all it takes to wipe off all of the anger Junhong had bottled up with care for months. A weary, puppy-like look, and a happy memory crashing onto him (quite literally).

 

     “ _I'm sorry,_ ” he answers on the same low tone, a playful smile dancing on his lips, “ _Were you worried?_ ”

 

*  
*    *

 

     It's summer and Junhong is proud to say he successfully pulled through all of his exams, that he is still alive, although quite exhausted. He feels like he could sleep for a full week. A long, full week of peaceful, dreamless sleep.

     His phone goes off in his back pocket as he's waiting for the bus back home – a smile threatens to tear his face apart when he catches a glimpse of the caller's id.

 

     “Hello, dickhead.”

 

     He can hear Youngjae's tender laughter at the other end of the line and a wave of warmth flushes through him.

 

     “So, how did it go?!”

     “Awful, they made me leave the stage in the middle of the performance.”

 

     He barely contains a laugh as he hears Youngjae yell and swear and curse, maybe even thump his feet on the ground.

     Junhong decides to add more drama into the act and fakes one, single sob – but it's enough to throw Youngjae directly over the edge.

     The younger just can't seem to get enough of it, of the profanities and comforting words. He has to admit, it's cruel, but he could play with the poor man's heart whole day if he had the time.

 

     Suddenly, Junhong can't hold back anymore and breaks into laughter, and the line goes silent for a slow while as he tries to draw some oxygen back into his lungs.

 

     “You're fucking with me right now, aren't you.” It's not a question, it's a fact; Youngjae sounds pissed but he can't bring himself to feel sorry.

     “I will tell you in detail at home tonight, I promise,” he chokes out in between chuckles, “Right now I'm headed back to my mother's.”

     Youngjae grunts. “Alright, see you later.”

 

     They fall silent but neither of them hang up, and the situation quickly turns awkward. Junhong pretends to hum pensively in order to fill the emptiness of their conversation.

 

     “Say, Junhong,”

     The concerned man heaves a sigh of relief.

     “Yeah?”

 

     He hears the other man drag a profound intake of air in, and gets himself ready for whatever he's going to say – what he hadn't expected though, is the impossibly high-pitched voice Youngjae uses to shriek at him, something akin the lines of  _“I.love.you.you.dick_.”; and he says it so fast, faster than what the human mind can possibly register at once, that he barely catches it before the line goes dead.

 

     Junhong smiles to himself.


End file.
